


dust and bones and fairy tales

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Possible Character Death, car crash, no graphic scenes of violence just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:31:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becks wakes up in a crashed car in the middle of nowhere. Gaz has gone for help. They have a steadily weakening phone connection. // 061. winter</p>
            </blockquote>





	dust and bones and fairy tales

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to split these up because '9 Works in David Beckham/Gary Neville' made me sad (even though it's mostly me) (oops)  
> Context: It's a champions league (LOL) game in Switzerland, say United vs Basel or something. There's a bit of a storm out, but Gary already made Becks promise to go watch it with him, so they go. 
> 
> Enjoy! I hope it's not too upsetting (as the tags warn, ambiguous character death)

Becks.

David jolts awake, his eyes flying open and heart pounding in his chest. He gasps, the sharp air searing into his lungs and almost causing him to choke. There’s an airbag in his face and he raises an arm to beat it away, only to realise his right arm is unmoving.

Hey, Becks.

The voice is somehow muffled, like listening through dense layers of fog. With his left arm, David pushes at the shattered glass on the passenger seat, finding the Samsung scratched and button damaged, but nonetheless working. “Gary?” he asks, surprised at how groggy his voice is. “Gaz.”

Yes, that’s my name.

There’s a short laugh, a cough, and David can picture Gary with the stupid smirk on his face and the irritating cackle that likes to ring across rooms. “I can’t move my hand, Gaz,” says David, feeling the terror rise in his voice at this admission.

I know. It’s broken. I tied it up best as I could.

“Where are you?” David asks, leaning forward to squint through the windscreen, a gaping hole that lets wind as cutting as its jagged edges cut through.

I went to get help.

“Can’t you just – ” David fumbles with the clasp of his seatbelt, realizes he’s stuck, slumps back against his seat in defeat. “ – use the sodding phone?”

Get real, Beckham. There’s not a person within range. I’ll hang up on you when I’m near civilization then use the phone, happy?

David looks at the withering landscape, white as angels, not a face in sight. Just endless, endless snow, and one thing to cling to in all this bleakness. “No,” he says. “Please don’t hang up.”

The voice on the other end of the line laughs again, hacks into another cough. David wills himself to breathe, to listen.

Don’t you worry, pretty boy. I’m coming. I’ll come.

He scans the horizon, hoping to see that familiar messy beanpole, hair all over the place, wispy moustache, liquid brown eyes. Nothing, but the level Mancunian calmness all still and broad and kind.

For you,

it says. David smiles and closes his eyes.

 

-

 

David opens his eyes. He’s lying on a bed in the Manchester Royal Infirmary, plastic tag on his wrist. He blinks and turns to find Gary sat beside him, one arm tucked under the other, head bent forward slightly, eyes closed. His hand is wrapped around David’s, warm and comforting to the touch. Their fingers slip into each other like the sun into the horizon.

A nurse bustles in and David asks her how long he’s been out. Thirty two hours, she says. He asks how long Gary’s been sat there, holding his hand. Thirty two hours, she says.

It becomes thirty three, the two of them like a tableau, one not moving, the other not daring to move.  

 

-

 

David opens his eyes. He’s fifteen and sat in the dressing room of The Cliff, waiting for his name to be called. Gary sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He doesn’t look up, not once, doesn’t say a word, just sits staring at his knees. It’s the first time Gary registers in David’s memory, awkward and gangly, this boy with the bright eyes and the red heart.

 

-

 

David opens his eyes. Frost has coated the edges of his lips, crept up the skin of his hands, all dried out and coarse. He shakes it off, struggles upright, his head immediately turning in search of the phone that is squawking his name. “Gaz?” he calls, and the reply is immediate.

Jesus, Becks, never do that again. I thought something had happened.

“I fell asleep, is all.”

What a time.

To fall asleep, to be alive, Gary doesn’t specify. David twitches his toes, knowing that he has to keep them moving, wondering if he’ll ever kick a ball again. “How’s it going?” he asks, just to have something to say.

Shit.

“That’s nice.”

Just like that game against Middlesborough in ‘98. D’you remember? One of those wet and miserable days in December, with the sleet coming in thick as a typical Liverpool fan. We’d had a crap run of games. Pally lining up against us. God, that was weird.

“Yeah.” David can see it, the green grass, the clean wooden goalposts freshly painted. “Scholesy came on for me and scored. Ribbed me about that for weeks afterwards. How much did we lose by again?”

A goal down. 3-2. Butty got the other one, didn’t he? Back when he still had hair. I played something awful. Must’ve given the ball away eight or nine times, at least. I probably still have some of the gaffer’s hairdryer in that kit. The only reason I didn’t come off was because Phil was playing worse than me. He usually did, didn’t he? No wonder Everton were keen.

David giggles despite himself, mirth racking his body as he imagines Phil’s face, scrunched up in abject horror as he realises he’s given the ball again one more time. He used to have floppy brown hair and hit an incredibly high pitch when Scholesy and Butty threw him in the bin one night out. And he’d turn up at ridiculous hours, twelve for a one o’clock pick-up, driving Gaz mad, who’d still be there at twelve fifteen nevertheless. And Giggsy would arrive five minutes to one, winding up both the Nevilles while still chewing on the gum Sir Alex had probably sold him wholesale. He stops giggling. And Gary would huff and shove everyone onto the bus and they'd lean over the seats, gambling with pennies and promises.

“We got old,” says David.

Nah. We grew up.

 

-

 

Sometimes he feels like he’s falling, an endless tunnel through to the centre of the earth, with grooves dug deep into the stone walls. He almost forgets to breathe, until the broad Mancunian voice reminds him (somehow it always knows when – has always, he realises, known); then he inhales and lives again, a little while longer.

 

-

 

“Tell me a story.”

Okay. Once upon a time, there’s this boy called Jimmy. He’s a normal, working class kind of lad, right, but more than anything in the world he dreams of being a – a –

“Rock star.”

Rock star. The thing is Jimmy can’t sing, which is a bit of a shame if you want to be a rock star. So he decides to embark on one of those learning journey things, decides to find himself. At, um, Glastonbury.

“How does a wannabe pop star afford a ticket to Glastonbury nowadays?”

The same way two idiot football apprentices scraped together enough for a fucking Bryan Adams concert. Shut up, Becks. I’m telling a story here.

“Sorry.”

You should be. Anyway, Jimmy’s excited as anything for this trip. The night before it he doesn’t sleep a wink. Who could ever sleep before chasing his dreams, right? In the morning he gets up bright and early and hops on the first bus out of there. Plain sailing, and that. Lots of nice English countryside and sheep and cows to stare at. At one of the stops this other lad comes on, Bob his name is. From London. Bloody Cockneys, thinks Jimmy.

“Well, fuck you.”

Gladly. You worry too much, it gets better. They find out that they’re both going to Glastonbury, so it’s all right, they can be mates. It’s a long bus ride. They talk about music and girls and other odd things that boys like to talk about.

“Football and movies and comic books.”

Football and movies and comic books. They see more sheep and more cows. After they’ve become mates, Bob decides to get off the bus because he reckons there's a shortcut to get to where they're going. Jimmy says goodbye and hopefully he’ll see him there. Now, d’you want the happy ending or the sad ending?

“Happy.”

Bob meets Jimmy at the gate and they give each other one of those awkward half-hugs boys are so fond of, and they find their dreams. Whoever’s headlining the concert meets them afterwards and turns them into rock stars. It's a brilliant concert.

“Bryan Adams.”

You wish.

“Gaz.”

If you think I’m headlining fucking Glastonbury, mate, you’re certified off your rocker.

“What was the sad ending?”

Bob goes to Glastonbury. Jimmy doesn’t make it. They never see each other again.

 

-

 

David opens his eyes. He’s in Switzerland, for whatever reason, sitting next to an oak table in a classy-looking room with wooden panelling. The phone’s ringing, so he picks it up. It’s Gary, wondering where the hell he is; he and the car are already waiting downstairs.

You mean they still want to play the game? David asks incredulously. Yes, of course, says Gary. A little snowstorm isn’t going to stop the sodding Champions League. You knew what it was like when you were playing, you old twat.

David grins easily, hangs up, fumbles around for his tie. He wonders if Gary still gets someone to tie his for him.

 

-

 

His arm has started to hurt even more, and the belt cuts into his chest. David wiggles around, trying to get more comfortable. The cold wind continues to whirl, biting into his cheeks and making his teeth chatter almost comically. Gary has a good laugh at this.

I can hear you even through this shit connection.

“Shut up,” David says, twitching his toes.

Make sure you keep awake, Becks. You’ll do that, won’t you? Stay awake.

“Yeah. Yeah, I will. For you.”

For me.

Gary’s voice is growing thinner, almost weaker, like the last strand of a sawed-through cable. David frowns, wondering whether it’s the connection or something else entirely. He also wonders why he hasn’t died yet of hypothermia, considering the fact that he can barely move, and that the temperature outside must have dropped a few degrees. It’s only then that he looks down and realises he’s wearing two coats, not one.

 

-

 

Hey, Becks. You should see the view.

“What’s it look like?”

The sunlight is fading and David squints at the mountains in the distance, so very far away. He realises he’s fading too. Gary coughs.

Like Old Trafford on matchday. Your hair gleaming in the sun, whatever little sun there is. All of us, on the pitch, all together again. Lots of – lots of red. Red shirts. Red seats. This time it’s the red of the horizon. Sort of – filtering across the mountains. Lighting up the stone untouched by the snow, like a mirror. Like a bird. Sprawled across the sky, smiling, waiting for the red to wrap it up, carry it away. Whispering in the wind. Like football and movies and comic books. Like love. Like the way I – well. Never mind. That’s not important now.

“What's not important?” David whispers, his breath shallow, eyelids fluttering.

Me. Keep awake, Becks. Don’t fall asleep. You can’t – fall asleep. Not now.

The sun drops below the horizon. The shadows begin to dance, and David thinks about the light that must be slipping down Gary’s face now, down the mountains, down the stone. Red as his heart. He wills himself to keep awake, tries to move his fingers and toes. Two coats. He imagines Gary lying, somewhere; maybe it’s really the range, maybe it’s something else. Like trying to run and falling. He tries to run and falls.

 

-

 

“He’s awake. Cripes, he’s awake. Call the doctor.”

David struggles to speak, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. He opens his eyes. There are people staring at him, multiple people, he’s got a mask of some sort on his face, and he’s breathing. His heart drums in his chest, and he tries to yell, where’s Gary? Gary came, didn’t he? He came. He got you and he came for me.

“Don’t try to speak, Mr. Beckham,” one of them says, blue-scrubbed. “You were in a pretty bad way when we found you, broken arm and all. It’s a wonder you didn’t freeze to death. Lucky you’d made sure you were well-insulated. And lucky you stayed conscious. Can’t imagine why you’d have gone driving alone in this weather.”

I didn’t, David tries to tell them. There was someone in the car with me. There was Gary in the car with me. My Gary – you know him – brown eyes, moustache –

“It’s okay, Mr. Beckham. We’ve got you now. Everything’s going to be okay.”

There’s someone else out there! he tries to shout, someone else! Save him! but already the scrubs are wheeling him away, from the cold white wasteland into the bus to Glastonbury. No, no, no. He shakes his head as they take him. No, no. Gary, where are you? Tell me, Gary. Tell me. No. Please. Where are you?

Don’t you worry, pretty boy.

I’m coming.

I’ll come.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. My headcanon is that Gary was really badly hurt, gave Becks his coat, left the phone there then struggled on, hoping to find help, but realised that he wasn't going to make it, then his number 1 priority became calling Becks and talking to him and making sure that he wouldn't die.  
> 1.5 I had to write this after watching Gravity - the scene where *spoiler* and then he talks her through everything lmao I had so many feelings watching that scene  
> 2\. idk...I felt like their returning to their childhood was a very emotional thing for me and very important thing for me to write, and also the growing old/growing up part - it's so jarring y'know to watch them grow old idk ignore this  
> 2.5 Phil really did get thrown into one of those big rubbish bins by Scholesy and Butty because they're MEAN and he's a lil pushover cutie  
> 2.8 The game against Boro in '98 was the last one we lost in the treble season huehuehue - scores and goalscorers are all accurate  
> 3\. The soundtrack to this is basically every emotional instrumental movie soundtrack you've ever listened to, though special mentions to Gladiator, Cloud Atlas, and certain non-bagpipey bits of Braveheart  
> 4\. [Tumblr!](http://carraville.tumblr.com)  
> 5\. Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it <3


End file.
